Mollie Cinnamon Is Not a Cupcake (5 page)

I follow Alanna into the conservatory.

“Sunny, this is Mollie,” Alanna says. “Mollie, Sunny. Now, Sunny doesn’t talk, but she’s an amazing artist and I’m sure she’ll show you her work if you ask her.”

Hang on. Did Alanna just say that Sunny doesn’t talk? Is that supposed to be some sort of joke? I look around to ask Alanna what she means, but she’s disappeared back into the kitchen.

Now that I think about it, Nan did warn me that Sunny is ultra shy. But that’s OK − I understand shy. I can be quiet myself sometimes.

“Is it OK if I sit here?” I ask her.

She gives me another tiny smile and nods her head.

“Do you live here, on the island?”

She nods again.

“Have you always lived here?”

She shakes her head.

“Where did you live before?”

She blinks a few times, then stares down at her notebook again.

This is not going well. I try another yes or no question instead. At least she can reply to those. “Do you like it here?”

Another nod.

“Do you know Lauren and her friends?”

This time Sunny scrunches up her nose before nodding. She looks like she’s just smelled something nasty, and it makes me laugh.

“At least Alanna seems nice.”

A grin this time and a big nod.

“And the hot chocolate is good.”

She nods another yes.

And then I’m stuck. I honestly can’t think of another thing to ask her. We sit there for a minute − staring at each other, looking away, then staring again − until the silence becomes almost too much to bear. I bite my lip. It would be really rude to get up and leave, but this is so awkward.

Sunny must sense how I’m feeling. She turns the page of her book, which I see now is a sketchpad, and starts to draw. Her hand moves like a hummingbird’s wing over the paper, making hundreds of hair-thin pencil lines. I watch, mesmerized. I’ve never seen anyone draw so quickly.

When she’s finished, she pushes the book across the table towards me. Alanna was right. She’s a really talented artist. She’s drawn a comic strip – three different pictures in boxes. In the first one there are two little girls holding hands. Underneath are the words “Shenzhen, China”. The smaller girl has a tiny ponytail sticking up from the top of her head, like a paintbrush. In the middle box is a plane, soaring over skyscrapers. And then, in the final box, an island shaped like a horseshoe with “Little Bird” written underneath.

I run my finger under each beautiful sketch. “You’re from China originally,” I say. “And you came to the island on a plane when you were little.” I point to the girl with the cute ponytail.

Sunny shakes her head and points to the taller girl.

“That’s you and your little sister then,” I say. “And Little Bird is your home now.”

She nods firmly.

“Were you adopted?” Oops, maybe that’s a bit nosy.

But Sunny doesn’t seem to mind. She just nods again.

“And you don’t speak, ever?”

She shakes her head and then, after a second, points to the little girl with the ponytail.

“Just to your sister. Is that what you mean?”

Another nod.

“It is a bit weird, you know. Having a one-sided conversation.”

Sunny shrugs, her face dropping a bit. I feel bad. I didn’t mean to upset her. I want her to know that weird is all right in my book. The girls at school think I’m strange for being so obsessed with old movies.

“I don’t mind,” I add quickly. “The not-talking bit, I mean. I go quiet sometimes too. Flora’s the chatterbox in our family. Flora’s my mum. We live in Dublin. She’s away travelling at the moment so I’m staying with Nan. Do you know Nan?”

Sunny nods.

“I’m feeling a bit homesick, to be honest. I don’t know anyone here.”

Sunny points to herself.

“You?”

She nods.

“You mean I know you? I guess I do.”

Sunny picks up her sketchbook, flicks back a page and points to it. My own face is staring back at me – freckles, mad curls and all. Except it’s not me in the picture − it’s a girl dressed in a tunic and bratt, standing in front of a castle. Sunny scribbles a few words under the picture. “You belong here. Like Red Moll.”

I look at Sunny and she looks back at me. At exactly the same moment, our faces break into two wide smiles.

Before dinner I flick through some more of Granny Ellen’s old photo albums with Nan. I’m trying to keep my mind off how strange and different Little Bird feels. Just as we sit down to eat, Nan’s mobile starts to ring. It’s the theme tune from
The Muppet Show
, which makes me smile. Mine’s a boring piano riff. I should ask Nan where she got the
Muppet
music.

“Hello, Flora,” she says. “Yes, of course. She’s dying to talk to you… It’s six in the evening here. We’re just about to eat dinner, in fact… Not at all. I can pop her plate in the Aga.” Nan smiles at me. “It’s your mum. She’s ringing from her stopover at Singapore. You can take it through to the living room if you like. I’m just handing over to Mollie now, Flora… Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.” Nan’s voice goes a little flat. “Really? What a shame. Why’s that? … Oh, I see… Yes, of course she can… No, you should definitely tell her yourself… I’ll put her on now. Have a safe flight, Flora. See you soon.” She looks a little worried. What has Flora done now?

“You talk to your mum now, pet,” she says, handing me the phone. “I’ll be right here waiting for you when you’ve finished.”

Once I’m in the living room, I say, “Flora? Is everything all right? You haven’t missed your flight, have you? Or lost your passport again?”

“Course not, Mopsy,” Flora says. “I wouldn’t have got on the flight without a passport now, would I? It was in the fruit bowl, like you said. Our Sydney flight’s about to be called, but I have a few minutes to catch up with my favourite girl.”

“How was your first flight?” I ask.

“Long. Very, very long. A whole thirteen hours. And the next bit is almost as long. But the film crew kept me entertained. They’re all boys, but that doesn’t bother me. They’re pets and they’re being so kind, carrying my bags and making sure I’m drinking enough water. Julian is obsessed with staying hydrated. He’s the director. We chatted for hours on the plane, and then we watched the same movie at the exact same time – this funny old comedy called
Groundhog Day
– so we could both laugh together and not feel like idiots. Hang on a second… People are starting to stand up. I think they’ve just called our flight. Yep, the boys are waving at me. I’ll see you very soon.”

“In three weeks,” I say.

“Must dash, darling. Be good for Nan now, won’t you? Love you lots. Kiss, kiss.” I can hear her lips smacking against the phone.

And then she’s gone. I walk back into the kitchen.

Nan looks up from the table. “Are you all right, Mollie? Such a shame about Paris.”

“What about Paris?”

Nan shifts awkwardly. “Didn’t Flora tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Her lips go so thin they almost disappear. “Oh, Flora,” she murmurs.

“What’s going on?” I’m starting to get a bad feeling.

“Sit down, child.” Her voice has gone all low and serious.

“I don’t want to sit down. What is it? Just tell me.”

“I asked your mum to break the news to you herself. But clearly she didn’t.” Nan sighs deeply. “Her plans have changed, sweetheart. You can’t go to Paris with her. She hadn’t actually asked anyone about it until today. She talked to her director and he said the production company won’t allow it. Something to do with their insurance. I’m sorry.” Nan puts her hand on my arm, but I shake it off.

“No, you’re not,” I say. “You don’t care about me. You’ve only just met me. I am going to Paris with Flora − she promised.”

“I’m so sorry, child. I don’t know what to say. Flora shouldn’t have promised without checking first.”

“You’re a liar!” I say. “I know she’s coming for me. And I’m not a child.” I dash out of the kitchen, sprint out of the front door and keep running down the dark, muddy track until my lungs are bursting. At the end of the lane I turn left and run down the road, towards the harbour.

When the stitch in my stomach becomes unbearable, I stop and bend over, sucking in big gulps of air. The worst thing is I know Nan is telling the truth. Flora’s always doing daft things like this. I feel so let down.

“Are you sure no one minds me tagging along?” I’d asked her one evening when we were talking about what clothes I’d need for Paris.

“Why would they, Mollie Mops? It’s not like you’ll be any trouble. No, it’s all hunky-dory,” Flora had reassured me.

I never dreamed that she hadn’t even asked them! How could she be so stupid?

Nan must think Flora’s a right fool. And there was such pity in her eyes. Poor Mollie − nobody wants her. Not even her own flaky mum.

I crouch down at the side of the road, wrap my arms around my legs and press my eye sockets against my knees. I’m so angry and upset. When I’ve caught my breath, I stand up. It’s creepy out here on my own. I’m sure I can hear rats or something scuttling in the hedgerows. It’s cold too, and the only light is from the moon. Why aren’t there any streetlights? Stupid island!

I know I’ll have to go back to Nan’s house eventually − I don’t have any other option − but right now I can’t face her. I shouldn’t have shouted at her like that and run away. The Paris thing isn’t her fault. I could go down to the cafe, but it’s probably closed by now and, anyway, it’s the first place Nan would look for me. There’s a rusty old gate beside me that leads into a field. Past the field I can just make out a dark shape hidden in the trees. It’s Red Moll’s castle. The perfect place to hide.

I climb the gate and walk through the field, my Converse boots squelching on the wet grass. I clamber over a low wall and walk through the mossy old trees. The air smells of rotting wood and damp leaves. And then I stop. In front of me is Red Moll’s castle. Or a bit of the castle − only one corner of the building is fully intact, but it’s still really impressive. The two remaining walls are the height of a double-decker bus, the upper half covered with dark green ivy. There are small slit windows that were for archers to shoot through. We studied castles at school. The boys were fascinated by the “toilets” – holes in a stone seat with a sewage pit below. Boys are always interested in gross stuff like that.

I’m still fuming. Why is this happening to me? Why does Flora always let me down? I pick up a long stick from the ground and, in my anger, start hitting the wall, hard, making moss fly off it in gloopy lumps. Then I lash out at the ferns growing around the base of the castle, whacking them with such force that the leafy fingers are stripped from their stalks.

“What are you playing at?”

I jump and swing around, my heart racing in my chest. A boy steps out of the trees. He’s wearing shorts, work boots and a hoodie. Shorts! It’s February. Is he crazy?

“What are
you
playing at?” I shout back. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Why are you hitting Red Moll’s castle? That’s a national monument, that is. Or at least it should be.”

“It’s been here for hundreds of years,” I say. “It’s not going to fall down just because I take a swipe at it. And Red Moll’s hardly going to mind now, is she?”

“Her ghost might. And look at the mess you’re making.” He kicks at the tangle of moss and fern at my feet.

I start to feel guilty. He’s right − it is a mess and I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve made a mess of everything today, but I’m not going to tell him that. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I lie. “And who made you Protector of the Ruins? Are you some sort of teenage security guard?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“What are you doing up here then?”

“None of your business.”

“Were you spying on me?”

“As if,” he says. “You’ve missed the last ferry, you know.”

“I’m not getting the ferry. I’m staying on this stupid hick island, worse luck.”

He gives a sudden laugh. “You’re Mollie Cinnamon.”

I could kill Nan. Has she told absolutely everyone on Little Bird about me?

“You are, aren’t you?” he says. “You know, your name makes you sound like a sweet or a cake. A cupcake from the Songbird Cafe!”

“I am
not
a cupcake!” I say.

“OK, OK. I was only joking.”

“What’s it matter to you who I am, anyway?”

“Nothing. Only Nan asked me and Lauren to look out for you on Monday in school, that’s all. We’re in the same class.”

In the same class as Lauren? This can’t be happening. “Is she your girlfriend or something?” I ask him.

“No! She’s my twin sister. And I think she has it in for you. You might need to watch your back.”

“Don’t worry. I can look after myself.”

“I can see that. But you can’t bring your stick to school.” The edges of his mouth are twitching, like he’s trying not to grin.

“Why are you smiling at me like that?” I ask.

“No reason. I’ll be seeing you around, Mollie ‘Not a Cupcake’ Cinnamon.” He turns and strides back through the trees, hands in his pockets, whistling to himself.

I glare at his disappearing back. What an annoying boy! Who does he think he is, laughing at me? And I still can’t believe he’s in my class. With Lauren and probably that Chloe girl too. I let out a groan and throw my stick after him. It clatters off a tree trunk.

“Don’t damage the trees as well, Mollie Cinnamon,” he shouts back at me.

“Shut up,” I mutter under my breath. “Leave me alone. All of you.”

When I get back to Summer Cottage, I’m still feeling angry with the world. And tired. And lonely. And cold. Nan welcomes me and makes me hot chocolate as if I’ve just been out on a nice country walk. She doesn’t say a word about my outburst, or Paris, or ask what I’ve been doing for the last half-hour, which is pretty decent of her. I guess she figures I feel rotten enough as it is, without going over it all again. She’s right. I absolutely, one hundred per cent do not want to talk about it.

When I’ve finished my hot chocolate, she lets me take the laptop to my room to email Flora. I put “Paris!!!” in the subject line and then begin to type.